Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Thursday, 4 August 2016

I’ve never availed myself of the services of a prostitute.
In Amsterdam in the late 1970s I gawked from afar with youthful curiosity at
the ladies of the night, each sitting in her individual shop window, before my
trance was disturbed by the appearance of a testosterone-fuelled snarling pimp, who triggered my hasty retreat.
But the prospect of entering a cavern where a multitude of semen-seeping males hitherto
thrust and drooled has never appealed to me. There was, however, one occasion
in 1987 – at the age of 29 – when I found myself up close and personal with a
couple of working girls.

I’d opted to pursue some further vocational training that necessitated
Mrs Jones and I moving home to live in the centre of Birmingham (England’s
second largest city). Money was tight so the only place we could afford was a £20
($28) per week ground-floor flat in the red-light area. The landlord, a
pleasant gentleman of Asian origin, lived upstairs from us and dined on curries
each evening; the unsettling smells of cinnamon, drifting down the stairs to mix
with the mustiness rising from our carpets, lingers to this day.

Around 8.30 pm one dark winter’s evening I headed out for
the shop on the corner of our street to buy bread, my coat collar pulled up
over my ears and my head bowed to defend against the icy December gusts. Fifty
metres from the grocery store, I glanced up and spotted them; standing outside
the shop entrance were two women, perhaps in their early 40s – although the
daily grind of their profession might have rendered this an overestimate – wearing
only black stilettoes, flimsy tops and crimson skirts that scarcely covered
their pubic bones.

I hesitated. My instinct was to about turn and head back
home, but the two shivering ladies had spotted my approach and appeared to be
anticipating a transaction, so my retreat at this point would look absurd.
Trying to adopt a nonchalant, man-of-the-world, seen-it-all-before swagger, I
continued my journey, avoided any eye contact, and strode past them to the entrance of
the shop, keen to escape into the well-lit interior. But to my horror, the door
was locked.

‘I think he’s just nipped out for a few minutes, love,’ said
one of the ladies. ‘Should be back soon.’

‘He’ll have left a note on the door telling ye how long he’s
gonna be,’ said her colleague.

While offering this helpful clarification, both women had
approached and flanked me, each peering over my shoulder, forming a huddled
trio, as we searched for the message estimating the time of the shopkeeper’s
likely return. Their faces within an inch of my own, the pungent smell of
excessive perfume caused my eyes to water.

I was about to state my intention to come back later, when
the shopkeeper appeared and unlocked the door. Muttering my thanks for their
help to the two ladies of the night, I slipped inside to obtain my loaf, ensuring
that my time spent browsing the shelves was sufficient for the women to vacate
the doorway. As I left the shop I spotted one of the prostitutes leaning into
the open window of a car that had pulled up alongside her.

‘If you want a blow job, it will cost you 40 quid, love,’
she said to the punter.